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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



POEMS 



BY 



ALLAN BRANT 




BOSTON 
RICHARD G. BADGER 

1907 



Copyright igo6 by Allan Brant 



All Rights Reserved 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

FEB 19 190/ 

C»pyrl£ht Entry 

cuss A xxe., Nb. 



The Gorham Press, Boston 



CONTENTS 


Page 




Hope . 

The Overflow 

Judge Not 

The Fair Los Aguilas 








1 

7 
8 

9 


Out of Place 








lO 


Whence and Whither 








II 


Contentment 








12 


To-Day 

An Epitaph 
Life . 
Greed 








12 

15 


The Dawn 








17 


Moving Forward 








18 


The Waif . 
Speak Out . 
Ode to Death 








18 

19 
20 


Reality 








21 


Lincoln 








22 


A Messenger 
Santa Tsabel 








23 
23 


The Old St. Joe . 








26 


My Wife^s Painting 








29 


Flotsam 








30 



POEMS 



HOPE 

The cry of truth and justice ringing in the ears of 

man 
Has kept the forward movement ever since the 

world began, 
In spite of selfish greed for power and thirst for 

human blood 
And vain distinctions made by man between the 

sons of God. 



THE OVERFLOW 

A little bird woke suddenly 

And burst out into song. 
The glad, sweet notes it carolled forth 

Were heard the whole day long. 

For when it raised its little voice 

And sang so cheerily, 
A dozen other songsters near 

Woke up and sang with glee. 

And soon the birds for miles around 

Were echoing that song ; 
Now here, now there, the chorus rose 

And ever rolled along. 

Somehow that woodland happiness 
Found way to haunts of men ; 

Reflected in bright faces there. 
Its beauty glowed again. 



And so the sweetness and the joy | 

Of that first waking bird j 

Were, here and there, the Hvelong day, j 
Continuously heard. 



JUDGE NOT 

In dreams his life passed by him in review, 

He looked and saw, there, cold condition's thrall 

Although the world said he had failed, he knew 
That he was, somehov/, helpless in it all. 

He felt how one's environments do bind. 

And, sometimes, thoughts like these passed 
through his mind: 

Not what he does, but what he strives to do 
Should be the rule by which to judge the man ; 

Give credit for his efforts, brave and true — 
Full praise and rank for doing all he can. 

Not what he reaches, not what he can do — 
The thing he reaches for, — feeds his heart to. 

Don't blame him if, perchance, he soon should fall. 
Struck down by circumstances' deadly hand. 

If climbing up the heights o'er topping all, 
In face of odds that no one can command, 

A rock o'erhanging falls and crushes him, 

Say not he would not climb who died to climb. 

Blame not the builder of the fated ship, 

Should helmsman let her run upon the rock ; 

The house may not be wrong, though timbers slip 
And tremble at the earthquake's awful shock. 

We cannot judge the works of Man or God ; 

Each man treads paths no other man e'er trod. 



THE FAIR LOvS AGUILAS 

High on the mountain road 

A ghostly figure stood, 

And, waving a hand abroad, 

Accosted me. 
"Spirit of these hills am I, 
Alone, but in love, I sigh 
For her who below doth lie, 

In the valley you see. 

"She Hves down there below, 
Where I can never go. 
And I wander to and fro, 

And weep alone. 
Oh, she would come to me, 
But the Wraith of the Vale is she, 
And apart must we ever be — 

Fate cold as stone. 

"vSo here, on the topmost peak, 
Where the first moonbeams break. 
Here where the white stars speak. 

Alone I stand. 
Where giant figures lie. 
Spanning the arching sky, 
Where unseen night-hawks cry. 

Near at hand. 

' ' Ever far and wide. 
Pictures that nowhere abide 
Come and go and hide, 

A wild, weird band ; 
While alone I ramble here, 
Wild as the wandering deer, 
Insane with love and fear; 

Yet dreams are grand." 



OUT OF PLACE 

Thy little face is sad to see, 
A sorry story seems to be 

Writ there by cruel hand. 
Ah, little urchin with big eyes. 
Is there no place beneath the skies 

For thee, no happy land ? 

He seemed to be a timid thing, 
With hardly breath enough to sing 

Or joy enough to play. 
He raised his eyes and looked around. 
His gaze then falling to the ground. 

He slowly walked away. 

I saw him look at other boys ; 
He really seemed to fear the noise 

That at their play they made, 
Although he longed that he might be 
As great and brave, as rich and free ; 

I thought it was too bad. 

Why should so innocent a thing 
E'er stand in awe of boy — or king. 

Or lack the hope of youth? 
Why should the stamp of cruelty 
Thus mar the face of such as he^ — 

Of any one, forsooth? 

Ah, saddest sight there is to see. 
When such a little thing as he 

Is stamped with sorrow's care. 
For woe is sadly out of place 
When found on childhood's tender face 

No shadow should be there. 



10 



WHENCE AND WHitHER 

What I saw in the baby's face, 
As it looked up into space, 

Somehow suggested to me, — 

The things that it now does see 
It has known before. 

Looking through other eyes, 
It had seen 'neath other skies, 

The same things come and go, 
Though where we do not know — 
On what strange shore. 

Borne by a vagrant breeze 

Over uncertain seas, 
Brought on a ship that fled 

Back to that land quickly sped, 
The land whence it came. 
The pilot who guided the bark, 

Out of and into the dark. 
Is spirit of land and sea. 

Of the life within you and me — 
Of wind and flame. 

********** 
The old man looked away, 

O'er the hills at close of day, 
And beyond in memory, 

Saw the hills of eternity — 
In dim outline ; 
There passing to and fro, 

Are the things of long ago ; 
The far forgotten past 

Is dawning on him at last — 
Beyond earth's confine. 



11 



CONTENTMENT 

Rushing out of the city, 

Hurrying away from the town, 

Faces all happy and pretty, 
Everywhere smile and no frown. 

Gay and light hearted as lovers, 
Forgetful of sorrow and pain ; 

Rest beck'ning hopefully hovers 
Over the hill-top and plain. 

Away some will go to the mountains. 
Some will go down to the sea, 

Searching, oh pleasure, thy fountains 
And looking only for thee. 

But thou dwellest not on the mountains. 
Thou art not found by the sea, 

For thou livest only in fountains 

Which well from thy own depths in me. 



TO-DAY 

Sometimes when fond regret for olden days 
And scenes of boyhood rise again in view. 

When memory her hand upon me lays, 

And speaks of change, I think "Alas, too true !" 

I see the old trees leaning o'er the stream, 

On whose green banks I played when but a 
child— 

The orchard where I used to lie and dream 

Sweet dreams of a world all pure and undefiled. 



12 



The forms I loved so well have disappeared, 
The landscape, even, changed to my old view ; 

And venerable ones whom I revered, 

Long since have left the old place for a new. 

But shall I mourn all that departed bliss, 

Regret that change has come to one and all? 

I rest upon the consciousness of this, 

That life expands and grows though leaves do 
fall. 

Those rosy dreams are pictures, dear to me, 
Whose memory binds me sweetly to the past, 

But, after all, 'twere better I should see. 
In changing forms, the real things that last. 

Let me not live forever in youth's dream. 
Within the haze that dims our early sight, 

Even though the sun-obscuring clouds may seem 
To be shot through with shafts of golden light. 

Whoever tries to live within the past 
Finds life a dreary waiting for the end ; 

There is no hope, no blessing that will last, 
Unless each day some message we shall send. 

While you lament the flower that fled last year. 
And weep o'er things that faded long ago. 

The flower that bloomed this mom and now is here 
Is hurrying on — Time's tide ne'er stops its flow. 

I say this day shall independent be. 

The passing hour shall hold me to the end ; 

I will not feed on dreams or memory, 

Except to say that Then with Now shall blend. 



13 



The memory of the past is all of it, 
And that belongs unto this very day ; 

Oh, live this hour, and let your lamp be lit 
With oil of Now, and in no other way. 



AN EPITAPH 

For forty years he lived in this old town ; 

He seemed to love its every crook and turn 

And all its people too, as up and down 

These streets he passed, new faces quick to learn. 

In love with life and all that life contained. 
He gave his love and smiles to one and all, 
And, it is said that meanest man ne'er feigned 
To scorn those smiles, be his heart e'er so small. 

His face forever glowed with radiance 

That seemed a light of heaven's own free giving; 

His happiness depended not on chance. 

He loved his fellow men and joyed in living. 

He saw within the face of every man 
A high companionship oft-times misused, 
In every face saw the eternal plan, 
He gave his all and no one was refused. 

He never bowed before a base-born god. 
Oblivious to Gold's contagious reign, 
Showed no more pleasure at the rich man's nod 
Than at grim poverty's extended train. 



14 



LIFE 

Among men I'd rather live 
And hear the busy tramping of their feet. 

Let me see, each day, again. 
The moving tide of life upon the street. 

The distant wooded hills, 
With all their stillness, have less charms for me. 

I'd rather stay among men, 
God's latest handiwork, the best to see. 

The sudden flashing eye, 
The heaving heart and hurried flow of life-blood, 

When dangerous duty calls. 
Or smile of human love, is nearer God, 

Methinks, than all the silence 
Of a thousand sleeping hills, with stars above. 

Give me humanity. 
In man himself is seen God's highest love. 



GREED 

Though we are making for the better 
And the higher, as we are told, 

Yet the thoughts of men seem centered 
On the pomp and show of gold. 

We hear the daily hum and whirr 

Of the business of life, 
And can't escape the mad impulse 

Of the worry and the strife, — 



15 



Of getting all we safely can, 

And keeping all we get. 
We hear a myriad voices 

Wherever we are met — 

On the rail-car, on the street-car, 

And even at the ball, 
The never-failing conversation 

Is on stocks, their rise and fall, 

On the markets, and the chances 

Of business being good; 
What effect will this storm have, 

That famine or some flood. 

When I listen to the voices. 
As they break upon my ear. 

The world seems held within the clutches 
Of a monster; everywhere 

Comes the hum of sordid greed, 

Although I wander far, 
As the waves beat on unceasingly 

Under sun and under star. 

But when I look beneath the surface, 

I behold the real man — 
How the heart is always longing 

To throw off this cruel ban. 



16 



THE DAWN 

The sun is showing in the east, 
The glorious day will soon appear; 

Be glad, ye sons of men ; 
For those who work will also feast, 
The time is drawing very near 

For Right to rule, and then, 

True dignity will till the soil. 
Or do whatever work it can 

To bear a useful part. 
Behold the marks of honest toil, 
And independence of a man. 

Proof of sincere heart. 

Men now, at last, begin to see 
And recognize their brother man. 

And all is foolish talk. 
About grades of society. 
The man who does the best he can • 

Is on life's highest walk. 

The sign, that men will cease to rob, 
Or give another cause to weep — 

The flag of truth unfurled — 
Is like the first, faint w^aking throb 
That rises o'er the calm sweet sleep 

Of a reposing world. 



17 



MOVING FORWARD 

Through the agony and tears, 
From the mist that clouds the years 
That have fled, 

Man comes forth with shining face, 
Moving toward his proper place — 
God o'er head, 

Sees that here and now is all, 

That the past, beyond recall, 

Is no more. 

That today is everything. 

Trust — believe — doubt not, and sing. 

As you soar. 

All that is to be is here. 
Never-ending life; no fear 
Then can come. 
For within yourself you find 
Consciousness and can't be blind, — 
Find your home. 



THE WAIF 

A boy, just verging into manhood's years, 

A scared and gentle look upon his face, 
Within his eyes a depth of frightened pain, 

A wild and wistful, yearning look of dread — 
Half, and only half, concealed by him 

Whose sensitiveness sat so full in view — 
Stood at the corner of the empty street. 

A stranger he, now caught in life's mad stream 
And carried on ; I knew not whence nor whither. 

The hour was late, and — as the helpless doe 



18 



Casts round a touching look of awful fear, 

When hounds break out from all around upon 
her — 

So the terror of the unknown and the night 
Laid hold of him. 

The guardian of the peace, 

Blue-coated and bestarred, approached and saw 
The waif (and to him rudely said, "Move on !") 

The wandering waif, come down from centuries 
Of honest parentage — that sturdy stock 

Who made their homes along the moving lines, 
Where savagery was slowly beaten back, 

And forests bowled their heads to honest toil. 
He cast a look around and hurried on ; 

No place for him in all this sleeping town. 
What half formed thoughts are rising in his mind, 

What doubtful questioning and bitterness, 
All tugging there to burst the bonds and let 

A demon free ! But, on the other hand, 
What possibilities of love, and growth. 

Of noble strength and helpfulness are there ! 



vSPEAK OUT 

Let the heart speak out with tongue and pen, 
Let the speaking heart be heard of men. 

Let its hopes and faith, its doubts and fears 
Stand plainly out in the running years, 

Let its message come through willing lips, 
Come forth into life through finger tips, 

That will pen the great heart's honest word. 
Wherever the speech of man is heard. 



19 



ODE TO DEATH 

Oh Death, sweet change, now thou hast come 
And by thy side I walk and see 
That thou art here to lead me home, 
How very dear thou art to me. 

And I have trembled at the thought. 
That thou should'st come at last for me; 
My spirit has been sorely wrought 
But now the way I plainly see. 

That house I clung to for so long 

And thought to leave were such dread pain, 

I think of now but with a song, 

That it can ne'er bind me again. 

My eyes, unsealed, at last behold 
Eternal truth, reality ; 
The sweep of vision, faith foretold. 
Reveals unthought-of worlds to me. 

This truth through all the ages runs. 
That eyes are clouded from within. 
The light that comes from distant suns. 
Is often shut out by our sin. 

My vision then was limited 
By yielding to the grosser part, 
The fear that hovered o'er my head 
Arose from an imperfect heart. 



20 



REALITY 

Borne on the waves of memory, 
Sweet thoughts of love float in to me ; 

The love that first my being thrilled, 

The joy with which young dreams were fllled. 

Transfigured in my wondering sight. 
It filled me with new-born delight. 

What w^as just now unknown to me 
Is all that in the world I see. 

My vision had not seen this thing 
That fills me now with wondering; 

Although I looked, I did not see, 
Yet it was hovering over me. 

There is so much we do not know — 
Some happy day we wake, and lo ! 

What seemed so barren in our sight 
Is flooded with a heavenly light; 

And beings everywhere, we see, 
That hold us for eternity. 



LINCOLN 

At last the storm came on ; with mighty roar 

•It burst upon the land ; then cheeks were blanched 

And hearts of men stood still and voices shook, 

For home and country's fate was now at stake — 

Far more than that, the cause of liberty. 

Free government's most crucial hour had come. 

Disaster, now, had turned the hands far back 

That mark the growth and upward trend of man, 

And cast a pall for centuries to come. 

When, lo, a miracle ! from out the west 

There came a man equipped to rule the storm. 

He filled so large a place, it well might seem 

He came direct, full-fledged, from Nature's hand, 

That he had sprung upon the earth, a man. 

And yet so late from God's own hand, that still, 

His great soul thrilled with visions from on high. 

Yet he was fitted for the earth ; it was 

His proper sphere ; he came to fill its need. 

He rode upon a mighty tide of sympathy. 

That flooded all his being, and from his place. 

He viewed the scene, and felt the present need. 

Seeing the awful immanence of peril. 

And, like one who, when comes the cry of "fire, " 

And panic seems at hand, sends out his voice. 

And holds the mighty host from danger's burst, 

He, GodHke, took the leadership himself, ■' 

And led the trembling nation on to safety. 



22 



A MESSENGER 

When thou wast laid away all hope was gone, 
The hght went out and I was left alone, 

For every plan of mine, every hope and dream 
Was centered there ; each individual thought 

Could have been traced to the radiant circles of 
Thy glorious womanhood. 

Though years have gone. 
Yet, still, when in the passing crowd, I see, 

Or faintly catch a glimpse of one whose form 
Brings thee to mind, my heart stands straneelv 
still; 

And then an awful void seems all around, 
As if creation's comer-stone had slipped, 

And earth's foundations sunk beneath my feet. 
Without seems chaos, till once more I turn 

To inmost self, and there I find my love — 
No more alone, for now I know that she 

Is heaven's holy messenger to me. 



SANTA YSABEL 

We took the road at break of day 
That leads up mountainside, away 
To old dome-capped Mount Hamilton, 
vSo far above he seems alone ; 
Nor paused where other's journeys end, 
O'er the divide our way we wend 
Past Muriata's Cave, where bold 
And haughty outlaw, we are told. 
Held safe retreat in days of old. 



23 



By rocky trail that winds far down, 
From shrub to wood we travel on, 
Into a wild, thrown far and wide 
From mountain side to mountain side ; 
Behold, there spread before our view 
As fair a scene as e'er man knew. 
Waibel Mountain, looking down. 
Just suggests the distant town ; 
From yon higher point the bay 
GHstens in the far away ; 
Island-like, extended wide 
Is the Seaboy's broad hillside. 
Where sturdy oak and pine between, 
Blend their different shades of green 
With the sun-burned brown below. 
Blood-hued manzanitas grow 
Here and there, all clustering. 
Where noisy jay and bluebird sing; 
Down below the Ysabel 
Casts o'er one a magic spell. 
Luring him to wander on 
Far and farther from the town. 

Here, the mountain daisies grow, 
Featherv flakes of summer snow ; 
There, the poppy waves abroad. 
Flag of simshine o'er the sod. 
Dainty humming-bird comes down 
To the thistle's crimson crown. 
Then away in quest of more 
Of the sweets from the comm.on store. 
In a limpid, rock-strewn stream, 
By rude bank you catch a gleam 
Of a shy inhabitant 
Reveling in fitting haunt; 



24 



Pausing, sharp-nosed pickerel, 
Leaning willow seems to tell 
How the brook comes to the dell 
Through the ragged chaparral. 
All that here is seen is part 
Of a song outvying art. 
Gentle wind and murmuring brook 
vSing the song in Nature's book. 
Mountain flower, primeval print; 
Read the notes as they are meant, 
Letters here of hues, I ween. 
From blue to gold and whHe on green. 

I well remember how that day 

Kd and I brought up the way, 

As on the drag we rode to steer 

Wagon of the mountaineer 

Down the hill, where to and fro 

Extend the lands of Plumbago. 

And now the lengthening shadow's tide, 

Along the Pino's darkening side. 

Reminds us that the hour is here, 

When day, just lingering, night so near. 

We feel how peace and rest atone 

For all the ills the day has done. 

A startled quail goes whirring by 

Into a friendly covert nigh ; 

Now, low and sweet, from far we hear 

A call that mingles love and fear; 

In timorous tones she calls to him, 

He gives replv from yonder limb. 

Ah, little woodland lover, thou 

Need never fear I'll harm thee now ; 

If I were on your capture bent 

At such an hour I would relent ; 



25 



I could not do at set of sun 
What earlier I might have done. 

Wrapped round by California's hills, 

E'en the silence us enthrills; 

This hush is but caesural pause, 

In strict accordance with the laws 

Of an eternal wildwood song 

That forever rolls along 

These mountain sides, where wildering 

Brook and bird and soft wind sing. 



THE OLD ST. JOE 
I 

It's many years since last I saw 

The fields I know so well. 
The woods around the berry-marsh, 

The paths within the dell, 

The greensward in the orchard with 

The robins hoppin' round. 
The brov/n leaves of the autumn and 

The apples on the ground, 

Uncle Daniel's maples that 

By the brooklet grow. 
The lordly elms, the sycamores 

And the banks of the old St. Joe. 

I've crossed it down at Napier's bridge, 

The island just below, 
I've crossed it up at Berrien Springs, 

Where the steamboats sometimes go. 



26 



I've crossed it at King's Ferry, 
Have watched its water's flow — 

From all along its dear old banks — 
From Niles to where they go, 

Into the gleaming, heaving lake, 
To the sea-gulls' lonesome cry, 

Where great ships puffing as they pass 
Go sweeping slowly by. 

I've lived beside the Pasig 

In old Manila town ; 
Have lain beside the Pasig, 

Strange stars looking down — 

I've paced my post beside it 

And heard its waters flow, 
But 'twas not music to my ears 

Like the rush of the old St. Joe. 

I've wandered many thousand leagues- 
Have traveled to and fro, — 

I've sailed upon the great Yang-tse 
And on the Hoang-ho ; 

Of all the streams I've looked upon, 

Not one of them can flow 
In the same old lovin' homelike way, 

As does the old vSt. Joe. 



II 



Just a few more weeks and then. 
When the spring has come again, 



27 



Soon's the orchards are in bloom 
And the robins all have come, 
I'll go back. 

Many years I've been away, 
But it seems like vesterday, 
Always thinking I'd go back, 
But somehow I seemed to lack 
Time to go. 

I'd wake up some pleasant mom, 
Find that there had just been bom, 
Once again, the old desire 
To sit beside the old-hearth fire, 
Way back home. 

How I long once more to see 
Maple, beech and hickory. 
Meadow-lands where wild flowers grow, 
Com fields stretchin' row on row. 
As of old. 

Always somethin' puUin' me 
Gently towards the old home-tree. 
So I'll go back to my old home. 
When the warmer days have come ; 
There will be 

Birds a-flutter in the trees. 
Flowers, covered o'er with bees. 
Air so soft and balmy too, 
Seems like it'd been fixed for you. 
All around, 



28 



I'll keep cool and go around, 
Travel o'er the same old ground, 
Look in' calm and dignified, 
Feelin' more like tears than pride, 
Thinkin' back. 

It wont do to let them see 
How it all is movin' me. 
Stirs my blood and makes it flow, 
These old scenes of long ago — 
Since I'm back. 



MY WIFE'S PAINTING 

Across the lower hills, in distance dim. 
The setting sun's last rays send back their glow. 
Lone mountain's rugged side, a mystic dream, 
Runs down to meet the calm lake's sluggish flow. 

The clear foreground sends down, intrusive like, 
A rocky point to view the distant scene, 
While two bold pines stand out, as if to strike 
The first intruder, rude, who should break in. 

A weird, unbroken stillness seems to hold, 
Beneath a reverential mantle, thrown 
O'er mountain, lake and promontory bold, 
The entire landscape, for its very own. 
And more than all its beauty, there is writ 
Upon my memory, "She painted it." 



29 



FLOTSAM 

I hold man-worship wrong wherever seen, 
And count of little worth the ranks of men, 

So little difference there is between 
The common man and leading citizen. 

I may not hope that what I chance to gain 
r Of what they call success will give me cheer, 
Unless I bear full measure of the pain 

That comes to him who does his duty here. 

The boasted power of wealth can never save 
A man from self-contempt if he be vile ; 

The consciousness of truth, though at the grave 
Of young ambition, wakes the rarest smile. 

The sweetest thing in all the world is love — 

To know that men will bear each other's pain ; — 

Since man will sometimes suffer thus, does prove 
That he the loftiest heights will somehow gain. 

For men will see that loving sympathy, 
Resistlessly, can move the world along — 

No load so heavy that it cannot be 

Borne by a world united 'gainst the wrong. 
********** 

No wretch so mean that heaven refuses h-ght. 
Except by man's poor, blasphemous decree ; 

I do not know but in God's perfect sight, 

Man's censuring man the greatest sin will be. 
********** 

Ever and anon there rises some 

Poor devil of a fellow, some Jean Valjean, 

Who for another crucifies himself 

And puts the world to shame. 

30 



FEB 19 t9#7 



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